


Fever

by orphan_account



Category: Ripper Street
Genre: M/M, tumblr fic request
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-06-08
Packaged: 2018-02-03 20:56:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1756827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank found himself wondering just how many times Carson had done this to someone. Bled into their weak moments and managed to take advantage of a concealed wound that had been left to fester for too long a time. He wondered if he’d just become another notch in Henry’s so-called belt; another triumph for the indignant win.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fever

It would have been a perfect day.

Sunlight poured through the window, a pavement of light casting itself upon the rich cream carpet that lined one of the three lounges in the uptown Chicago residence. Worn, creaking leather chairs sat in the corners, seeming to hide from the glaring glow of daylight. Horses’ clattering hooves and jovial civilian laughter trickled through the thin panes of glass, a constant reminder that life still hauled to its feet and continued on; no matter what happened.

Frank Goodnight was seated upon one of these comfortably sunken chairs, the shade of grey that divided the room encasing his form as he stared out at an empty nothing, his face expressionless. A church bell rang out across the city, it’s monotony only serving to add to the frustration building within the Pinkerton, who’s faith in just about _everything_ could be questioned at this particular point in time.

It had been a little less than a month since that fateful day. The day he’d unknowingly said goodbye to two men who’d impacted his life - his brother, and his closest friend. He could recall every detail of that morning, every sound, sight and smell he’d been exposed to. Each second had imprinted itself into his memory – forever there to plague any tranquility. He hated himself, not only for ignoring all the warning signs in the days – and weeks – leading up to Matthew’s desertion, but too, for his brother’s unnecessary murder. It should never have happened that _way_. That shot had been meant for Frank, _not_ William.

Yet, here the Goodnight brother was, in a room of ostentatious luxury. Alone.

The guilt had soon numbed the anger in the days after the event, and the sting of betrayal that had gradually settled itself in his mind served only as potent venom, fuelling the rage that intertwined with the Detective’s every thought. It wasn’t fair. Though a brutal truth always struck him with a forceful blow; life never really _was_.

He craved an understanding; a sense of his former self once more. He wanted to _feel_ , to _laugh_. No longer did Frank want to observe this sense of entrapment. However, the only man capable of remedying such an ailment had gone. He’d abandoned them all, and that truth was much too difficult to accept.

His fingers drifted to his jawline, and thus he rested his head against his rough knuckles, the five o’clock shadow that outlined his face scratching against the sensitive dorsal of his hand. The American barely noticed such an action, and even less did he register the feel of it. He could hardly care less anymore; touch was an emotion of its own, and he had rid himself of _that_ for some time now.

The room was unpleasantly warm – a stifling sensation crawling up the back of his throat and compressing against the sides of his neck. His mouth felt dry and cotton-like, and the Pinkerton soon realized he couldn’t recall the last time he’d drunk anything. _Hell,_ he didn’t even know how long he’d been sitting _here._

Still, he remained, the silent solitude nipping at the heels of any longing for company he may have had. He preferred being alone these days – it meant he had more time to tend to his thoughts, and more time to try and heal the invisible wounds that had been left untreated as a result of the confusion and loss that had ensued after that fateful day in New York.

A soft knock at the door broke him rudely from his procrastination, Goodnight snapping his attention towards the person responsible for such an intrusion. The look of dismay that followed after he recognised the ‘intruder’ as Carson was evident, and the other man almost turned on his heel and left there and then.

However, he’d taken note of Frank’s expression, and the loneliness in his eyes. Henry didn’t like to admit he was familiar with those certain feelings, but he was, and even though many years had passed since then, he could still empathize. Goodnight had lost his brother, along with his one true ally in life; the sense of betrayal had stung them all, eventually. They’d all thought Judge to be a better man than that.

“Y’ look as though you could use a shot o’ whiskey.” The rugged Pinkerton spoke up, looking to his colleague with a slight frown. After no answer came, he moved to sit, watching as Frank’s eyes darted in his direction with a wolf-like wariness. Carson heaved a sigh, settling into the chair and clasping his hands across his middle as he glanced to Goodnight once more. “I’m sorry.”

“For _what.”_ The other Pinkerton scoffed dryly, shaking his head. “Ain’t you who should be ‘pologisin’.” His baritone held an edge of a growl as he exercised his larynx for what had been the longest sentence he’d spoken in over a week.

“Not bein’ there.” Was Henry’s quiet answer, before he gave a subtle chuckle; “Didn’t think I’d live t’ hear you say that, Frank.” A long pause passed between them, and an audible breath was sighed as both men sat in the peace and quiet, ensuring to remain as prudent as possible in their own reflective thoughts. Deciding he could stand the tangible silence no more, Carson cleared his throat. "Y'know, confinement - even if voluntary - ain't good for ya'."

"An' you think I do not know that?" The hissed reply evoked a wry chortle from Henry, who rose from his seat and moved to stand infront of Frank.

 

"Not sure _what_ you know anymore, Frank. No one does. Got us all a lil’ worried, truth be told."

 

Goodnight furrowed his brow, lifting his head to stare at the other Pinkerton with a threatening undertone in his eyes. " _Worried_?" He repeated, a sarcastic edge to his voice as he pulled himself up, mirroring Carson's stance. "We share a common dislike of one another, Carson. Don't try t' perceive it as otherwise, and certainly not as _worry_."

 

Shaking his head, Henry arched a brow. "Yeah. Y' made that pretty clear already." Adding as he took a step backwards;  "Don't need it clarified."

 

As much as he was mostly of a calm disposition, he found that certain situations, similar to the one he found himself in now, had various possible outcomes. Breakdowns in colleagues - especially silent ones - always came at the most atrocious of timings, however Goodnight's comment had irritated him, and he clenched his fists with the words. "'Sides, what else could I perceive it as?"

 

Frank was quiet then, looking away as the frown released itself from his forehead. Another silence rolled between them, before the broken Pinkerton opened his mouth to speak, a small hesitation following as he kept his eyes down. "Get out."

 

" _What_?"

 

"Get. _Out_."

 

"No. This ain't your residence, Frank. I can choose when I _fuckin’_ leave." Carson narrowed his eyes, jabbing a finger in Frank’s direction; offended.

 

A dry half-chuckle emanated from Goodnight as he shook his head, "Well ain't that some damned insensitivity."  He spoke through gritted teeth, turning almost on his heel, the carpet giving a muffled hiss of protest as he strode towards the door.

 

Anger snagged at Henry's conscious. Frank had no right to speak to him in such a way. No right at all. "So that's how you thank people, huh?" Carson snapped, glaring at Goonight's turned back. "Someone offers you _one goddamned moment_ to share your troubles, an’ that's how y' leave it." He gave a cold laugh. "Go along now, Frank. Run, as y'always ever have."

 

Hand hovering over the door handle, Goodnight swallowed bitter words, pulling the door open and making – what he’d intended as – a final comment. "I don't run, Carson. I'd 've thought y'self of all men would at least know that." His expression was taut as he glared at Carson with an undertone of anger, his trembling arms contradicting his fixed, unwavering countenance.  “No.” He reaffirmed, moving forwards as the other man took an elongated step backwards, “I do _not_ run. I wait, an’ I bide my _damned_ time. And I’ll keep waitin’ ‘til these dark times see fit to move themselves along in their miserable existence.”

 

Cool air from the thin, almost-ineffective windows left an odd prickling sensation running down Henry’s spine as Frank’s raised baritone filled the room for a second time. He took another sidestep; away from the window and backwards to put more distance between himself and the other man. “We all have t’ face our demons one day, Frank. Even the best of us.”

 

Jaw clenching in supressed rage, Goodnight gave a sharp shake of his head. “Not always, _fool_.” Though without giving Carson any time to reply, the Detective turned once again, making for the door with a keen intent to leave. He wasn’t in the mood for any further discussion about _anything._

Fool? _Fool?_ Carson growled out his fury, striding towards Frank and extending and arm out to the side, his forearm barring Goodnight by the neck and shoving him harshly against the wall, Henry’s expression uncaring. “Y’know, Frank, perhaps if y’ spoke with a little more fucking courtesy, people might not deem you as dispensable as y’ make y’self out t’ be.” The Pinkerton spat through closed teeth, glaring at the man before him who was fighting against the sudden restraint.

 

“You _God damned_ son of a _bitch_. Dispensable? _No_.” Frank choked out, coughing as he recovered from the sharp strike to his larynx.

 

It would have been _so_ damned easy to just walk away there and then. To throw Goodnight a look of disgusted maturity and leave without another word as his ‘superior’s eyes bore invisible burns into the back of his head, companioned with a challenging snark or some re-composing declamation of “abandoned brotherhood”.

 

Yet as he glanced to Frank for what he’d _intended_ to be a final time that evening, the other Pinkerton met his own gaze with a sneer of _so-fucking- **what**?_ His brows raising – as if to trap Carson into retaliation. If he turned and left now, he’d have been defeated by the man he’d strived so hard to impress.

 

 

_Impress?_

 

What was he? He was no dumb tail, that was for sure. Henry prided himself on his ability to keep his wits about him – even in the direst of circumstances. However now, as he stood and slowly began divorcing any sensible train of thought that might have been lurking around in the hidden corners to the forefront of his mind, Carson let out a long breath through his nose, becoming acutely aware of the pulse in his neck, and the heat that arose from Goodnight’s still shoulder, chests heaving angrily.

 

Their eyes met again, and that same strangely-numb trickle worked its way down Henry’s spine.

 

Frank’s fingers were the first things to move, his grip of resistance faltering as his arm dropped down uselessly to his side, his other hand remaining clamped around Carson’s wrist in a show of semi-defiance. _No. I won’t surrender. Not completely._

Not that Henry had expected him to, either. Though, he had to admit, he was surprised Goodnight had let this go on for as long as it had - considering his resentment towards his rough-hewn Pinkerton colleague.

 

He detected Goodnight’s familiar aroma – which always seemed to be laced with its own sense of self-bloody-righteousness – as he leaned in a little further. Pushing his luck; testing the other. If Frank had a reaction in mind, he certainly didn’t make it known, standing stock still as Carson moved his caught arm down, his free hand tracing a sideways line up Goodnight’s waist towards the anterior of his chest.

 

There was a small, timorous second as Henry cast his line of sight towards Frank, who’s intense stare held an undertone of curiosity. Both men quirked a brow – Goodnight’s motion a little slower, steadier than Carson’s – before the suddenness of their situation seemed to creep up on them. With jagged forwardness, Henry leaned in again – closer this time, his dry lips skimming the other man’s with a touch of caution.

 

He felt like prey being lured into a trap; a very false, yet very easily accepted sense of security.

 

The thing that alarmed him most? He didn’t really mind.

 

Odd thoughts struck Carson in those few seconds. He wondered where Charlie was; and tried to recall where he’d last seen the rest of the team. He pondered over what time Swift would return, and how long it would be before someone would see it dutiful to check up on either of them. He briefly considered if this was all a very bad idea, and if he’d snuffed out the candle in the lobby.

 

The mouth that meshed against his own dragged him from his thoughts with enough force that he felt as if he were about to fall over, a rapid wave of dizziness overcoming him as he snapped back into the moment, and settled his hand to rest against Goodnight’s abdomen, his broad shoulders flexing as Henry trailed his tongue between the man’s lips.

 

A wounded groan was all that could be heard, a sign that Frank had decided to give in. Pulling back with what could only be described as a coy grin, Carson moved his other hand upwards before  pressing his palm flat against the wall – in the process giving reason for Goodnight to remove his own hand from Henry’s wrist.

 

The rugged Pinkerton shed his jacket, and once he’d done so began following the stitch lines of Frank’s waistcoat. He noticed how colour-coordinated Goodnight really was – every item of clothing displaying its own corresponding pattern. Carson pulled lightly on the cravat around the other man’s neck, greeting his lips for a second time and with a little more urgency, his fingers making easy work of the brass buttons that lined the centre of the garment. The material brushed against his fingertips, its texture not quite rough, yet not soft, either. He noticed how indecisive Frank was, too.

 

Finding victory with the waistcoat, he pulled it back and over Goodnight’s shoulders before letting it drop to the floor. The gun holster that sat rather aptly across his hip followed, though Frank was rather insistent that _he_ should sort that out, throwing it in the direction of the opulent cream and black couch located a few feet from them with effortless and accurate aim. The soft clincking of chamber metal could be heard as it impacted the cushioned landing, the sound followed up with a dull thud as Henry pushed the other man against the damask wall.

 

Small, fleeting nips at his jawline caused Frank to lift his chin, sinking down the wall only very slightly as Carson’s free hand traced the outside of his thigh. A sharp sting along his collar bone pulled Goodnight into some resemblance of reality, and his eyes opened, dilated pupils fixed on Henry, who looked up, straightening his posture to place his lips against Frank’s once more. Goodnight could taste some mediocre shit brand of tobacco this time, though didn’t find it entirely unpleasant. Each exchange seemed to shift in character; this time Carson pushed forwards roughly, his hands fumbling over the more precise _damn_ buttoning of his own shirt.

 

Intervening, Goodnight pressed against the other’s mouth, his hands calmly moving to aid Henry as he worked his way down each remaining link. Mere seconds later, Carson no longer felt the restriction of his shirt, rolling his shoulders out of the item of clothing with ease. Frank’s shirt was half open by now, though it took Henry a moment to notice as he also became aware of the _restriction_ his lower attire appeared to be providing. Placing his hands against the wall on either side of Goodnight, Carson moved his lips away, remaining close as both men inhaled quietly.

 

Frank’s breath against the crook of Henry’s neck enticed an audible exhale from the man, to which Goodnight leaned a little closer, his quiet words constricted with a laced blatancy. “What’s become of us all?”

 

 _I know not._ Was Carson’s unspoken answer, though he feared – as everyone always did when confronted with a question from Frank – that he could read the answer in their eyes, as if it were written in plain English across their very being. A door could be heard closing from another part of the house, and both men tensed. _Shit for timing. That I **do** know._ He looked to the man, finding Goodnight’s expression was steady. He was careful by nature, and Henry knew that this must be slightly daunting, even for him.

 

 _Well, that was unless the Judge rumours really_ were _true._

 

Seconds passed before Frank felt a hand comb through the back of his hair, and things began to settle back into motion once more. The Pinkerton was only made aware of the cravat still settled around his neck when Henry pulled on it once again, grinding his hips against Goodnight as he pressed his forehead against the man’s shoulder, stifling a shuddering, sharp gasp.

Frank found himself wondering just how many times Carson had done this to someone. Bled into their weak moments and managed to take advantage of a concealed wound that had been left to fester for too long a time. He wondered if he’d just become another notch in Henry’s so-called _belt;_ another triumph for the indignant win.

 

Yet, even considering all these contradicting emotions, Goodnight didn’t have it in him to break away. To simply say “no”, and leave without another God damned word on the matter. With true clarity he realized he really _was_ a broken man, with little hope of survival, even less so recovery. It was a monotony of rage and guilt and trampled anguish that ruled his days now. So what was a little fever to differentiate?

 

Carson’s nose pressing into the crook of his neck drew him from his untimely thoughts, as did the hand that slowly crept up the inside of his thigh. With a finalising glance towards the closed door to the room, Goodnight put his head back and closed his eyes, losing himself.

 

_What’s become of us all?_


End file.
